IVY GALANIS POV
My hands won't stop shaking as I ask myself the question: Am I ready for this?
No.
I am absolutely not ready for this.
But the envelope is still on my lap, heavy and innocent and deadly all at once, and my best friend Maya's words are stuck in my head like a bad song.
If you don't believe me, open it.
I drag in a shaky breath. The room feels smaller today, like the walls are leaning in to watch. The curtains are drawn, but a thin slit of light still cuts across the floor, slicing the room in half. My half. His half.
Our bedroom. Our marriage.
My prison.
I run my finger along the edge of the plain brown envelope. It looks harmless. It shouldn't be capable of holding proof that my life is a lie.
Evidence.
Maya called it evidence.
I told her she was being dramatic. I told her Julian would never do that to me.
My fingers tremble as I tear the flap open.
The photos spill out and scatter across my thighs.
At first, my brain refuses to process them. I see colour, skin, shapes. Then everything sharpens into focus, and the air leaves my lungs in one rough exhale.
Julian.
His profile. His hands. His mouth.
On someone who is not me.
The first photo hits hardest — his hand snug around a woman's waist, his mouth too close to her ear, that lazy half-smirk tugging at his lips. The one that used to make my heart skip.
Now it makes me want to throw up.
The next picture is worse. Less space between them. Less clothing. His body is bent over hers, motion blurred but clear enough. Intimate. Familiar.
My chest tightens so hard it hurts. For a second, I genuinely think I might pass out.
How could he do this?
How could Julian do this to me?
The clock on the wall keeps ticking, but it sounds wrong, like it is ticking underwater. The air feels too still, too stiff, like the room is holding its breath with me, waiting to see if I break.
Maybe Maya is wrong, I tell myself. Maybe it's edited. Maybe it's old. Maybe—
No.
I know the shape of that jaw, that shoulder, that smirk. I know the way his fingers curl when he grips something he plans to keep.
I know my husband.
He once told me control was a form of care — that keeping me sheltered, keeping our life "contained," was his way of keeping me safe.
I believed him.
People like me always believe men like him. Calm, composed, certain. They can convince you the cage is protection and that the lock is love.
A tear slides down my cheek. I swipe it away angrily.
This marriage was supposed to be my safe haven. My lifeline. My bargain with the universe — one year of control in exchange for a chance to breathe. I wasn't asking for much. Just an escape from the life I had before. Just a shot at survival.
I risked everything to step into this penthouse, into his world, into his arms.
Apparently, I miscalculated.
I pick up one of the photos with unsteady fingers and stare at it until my vision blurs.
"Ivy?"
His voice slices through the silence.
My whole body goes rigid.
He's home.
Footsteps pad across the marble floor behind me, measured and calm, like nothing is wrong. Like my world isn't crumbling in my lap.
"What's wrong?"
What isn't?
I don't turn. My fingers shake harder, and one of the photos slips from my grasp and drops to the floor at my feet. There is a shift in his breathing behind me. A pause.
He has seen them.
My pulse hammers in my ears. My throat feels tight, like if I try to speak, I will choke on the words.
"Ivy." His voice is closer now. Lower. "Talk to me."
I wipe my face again, swallowing the sob clawing its way up my throat. I glue my eyes to the pictures even as my vision warps around the edges. Everyone thinks I'm lucky. The girl who caught the billionaire. The fairytale bride plucked from obscurity by a man with a black card soul and a marble heart.
No one talks about how suffocating fairytales are once the story stops being told.
Julian moves into my peripheral vision. His cologne hits me first — black vanilla, expensive. Familiar enough to make my chest ache even more.
"What is this?" he asks quietly.
I laugh. It's a short, ugly sound. "You tell me."
He follows my gaze to the photos. For a second — just one — I see it. A flicker. Something sharp in his eyes, there and gone so quickly I almost doubt I saw it.
Then his expression smooths over, immaculate and unreadable.
"Where did you get these?" he asks.
"Does it matter?" The words scrape out of me. "You're the one in them."
Silence stretches. My hands curl into fists in my lap, crumpling the edge of one picture.
He bends, picks up the one on the floor, and studies it like it's a business document he is trying to find loopholes in.
My heart is pounding so loudly, I am shocked he can't hear it.
"She said you were cheating," I whisper. "She said she had proof. I told her she was crazy. I told her you would never. . ."
My voice breaks.
"Ivy—"
"Don't." I finally turn to look at him. "Don't call me like that and make it sound gentle. You did that in these pictures too, right? Did you call her name like that before you—"
"Ivy." This time, my name comes out sharper. Not cruel. Just edged.
He looks at me fully now, grey eyes locked on mine. They are calm. Too calm.
"I need you to listen to me," he says. "The man in these pictures—"
"Is my husband," I cut in, bitterly. "My husband, who promised me a year of safety, at least. My husband, who made me sign away my freedom in exchange for protection he couldn't even keep in his pants."
Something dark flashes in his gaze. His jaw ticks once.
"You think I would be this careless?" he asks, voice low.
"Yes," I breathe. "Because up till now, I thought you were honest. Turns out, I'm terrible at reading you."
I stand, my knees wobbling under me. The photos flutter to the floor between us like fallen leaves.
"How long?" I ask. "Was it while I was sleeping next to you? While I was telling myself this cage was worth it? While I was convincing myself you were. . . different?"
He doesn't answer.
Of course, he doesn't.
I drag my fingers through my hair, laughing again because the alternative is collapsing.
Sometimes I think about the version of me that never took his card that night. The girl who walked away from the club, who went back to her tiny life and her cheap apartment and never learned what his hands felt like when they were gentle.
I wonder if she is happier. If she is freer. If she still knows how to breathe without asking his permission.
Stupid, hopeful Ivy. I muted every warning and silenced every doubt just to believe I would be safe in his arms.
Now I'm standing here with proof that safety was never part of the deal.
My vision blurs again. I blink hard.
"I need to know where it went wrong," I say softly. "Because this pain? This betrayal? It doesn't feel new. It feels like something that started a long time ago, and I was too blind to see it."
I bend, picking up the top photo again. The image swims.
"If I had been smarter, I would have run the night I met you," I whisper. "I would have told that girl in black not to smile back, not to take your damn card, not to follow the man whose calm could drown her. Not to mistake being seen for being safe."
I straighten, meeting his eyes.
"But she didn't listen. And that was her downfall."
The corner of his mouth tugs, but it isn't a smile. "You're talking about yourself like she is someone else."
"She is," I say. "She was. I don't even recognize her anymore."
A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the photo he is holding. For the first time, I notice something else in his eyes — something like frustration, or. . . fear?
"Ivy." His voice dips, firm and quiet. "Look at me."
I already am.
"That is not me," he says. Each word is steady, carved out of stone. "I don't know where your friend got these pictures from, but the man in them is not me."
A humorless, broken laugh escapes me. "Please. Don't insult me."
"It isn't me," he says again, firmer. "I don't know where she got these, or why she wants this between us, but the man in those photos is not me."
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Liar.